


Heat Wave

by glacis



Category: due South
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short vignette in which Meg Thatcher decides to flow with the heat ... and Fraser obliges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Wave

Heat wave, by Sue Castle. Meg/Ben story. Timeline - after All The Queen's Horses, before Red White or Blue.

 

She should have known better. She really should have known better.

But she just couldn't help herself.

It had been another hot Chicago August day, and they were fourth on the list for the air conditioner repairmen. One would think that a Consulate would rate a bit higher, but this was the US, after all. The memo had been explicit in the relaxation of guidelines, and she had agreed. Certainly didn't need to lose any more staff to heat stroke. Not that Turnbull was much of a loss, but still. But if red had suited him, white surrounded by suspenders highlighted his attributes even more strongly. She tried not to look, tried not to think, tried not to tug the suddenly tight neckline of her blouse away from her dry throat.

Damn. He even perspired well.

He felt her eyes. The back of his neck flushed, defeating his act of will. He felt his skin prickle when she swept her gaze over his back, seemingly unconsciously across the width of his chest in the undershirt stretched over his skin. Lashes swept down to hide his reaction, the desk a determined barrier between them so that his untimely physical response to her perusal would not embarrass both of them, voice held firmly professional -- all these defense mechanisms were nothing to the warm tide of crimson sweeping under his skin.

He felt like he was on fire. She felt like she was on fire.

Silence lay between them like a wall.

So, of course, he had to work late. He and his friend Ray had cracked a case the previous night, one which had been worrisome, frustrating, and difficult .... and which had left him not at his best for the next day's paperwork. His work was as meticulous as always, but an unaccustomed langour was making his mind sluggish and causing his reports to take longer to complete than he would have hoped.

She kept looking at him.

His concentration was shot.

"Do you need a ride home, Constable?" Lord. Was that her voice? Meg shook herself slightly. Where had that offer come from? He was looking at her. He had the thickest lashes she had ever seen. Normally they shaded the thoughts behind those crystal blue eyes, leaving the world to see the bone-deep courtesy and gentleness of the man, guarding the inner soul. Today those eyes seemed sleepy, softer than usual. Vulnerable. She tugged at her neckline again.

His eyes followed the movement of her fingers, lingered at the softness of her throat, the sharp line of her jaw. The tightened lips, the wide eyes. For a long, crazy moment he wished for unconscious Mounties and speeding trains, explosives and potential nuclear catastrophe ... he wanted to kiss her again. This time he wanted to hold her somewhere other than atop a train, fear propelling their actions, someplace calm and simple and sweet. No candles, just moonlight. Open windows. Dief in the other room. He wanted her in his bedroll.

The warm tide of crimson washing up from her collar to her hairline fascinated him. She couldn't believe he could cause her to blush like this with no more than a look. His eyes finally met hers, and she read there a mirror message to the one being urgently sent from her own nerve endings. Take this man. Lock the door. Taste him. Touch him. Now.

Neither one of them could break that look.

"Please," he almost whispered.

The ride seemed to take forever, and not nearly long enough. She had borrowed one of the smaller consulate cars, a nondescript Japanese model that would blend in with the truly appalling neighborhood in which he made his home. The choice had been subconscious, not deliberate, she assured herself. The singing under the surface of her skin laughed at her. She wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon. She didn't care if the hoodlums stripped the car to its bare frame. She was going to test the firmness of that simple double bed she had had so much trouble tearing her eyes from the first time she had ever seen his apartment. She risked a glance at his still profile. He seemed paler than usual, eyes fixed firmly straight ahead, staring through the windshield at the bustling traffic as if keeping sharp watch for mauraders at the gate of some distant fort. His lips were drawn into a severe line, and he was unconsciously biting gently at his bottom lip. She caught herself before moaning aloud. God, it was hot.

He hesitated when they arrived at his apartment, wondering if she would like to be invited up, knowing his stark rooms were not up to her standard, suddenly and fiercely wanting someplace nice, somewhere cool and soft and beautiful to match her own beauty. Before he could untangle his thoughts enough to make a decision about asking her in for a cool drink, he realized that she was standing impatiently beside his closed door. He looked at her for a startled moment, then hurriedly extracted himself from the car and followed her outthrust arm into his building.

Silence sat between them, not calmly, but as if it had a life of its own, writhing lazily in the short space between their bodies, feeding on the heat and the tension between them.

Her eyes slid down the solid expanse of his back to rest on his firm buttocks as she followed him up the rickety stairs. Her breath was coming in increasingly short pants, and it had little to do with the physical exertion or the ridiculous heat. Her mind's eye was imprinting another image over the smooth play of muscles in front of her ... silky skin, gleaming with sweat, her fingers digging in to the bunching muscles as he--

"Inspector?" His quizzical voice broked her concentration and she realized they were standing outside his door. She had followed him to his door, and now stood behind him, staring at his ass. Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she faltered for the first time since she had decided, back in her office, that she wasn't going to pretend any longer, because it wasn't going to go away. Her throat felt incredibly dry. "Are you all right, Sir?"

That did it. Sir. She was so damned tired of him calling her sir. Her lashes swept up, and with one strong hand she pulled the door open, threading her other arm between his elbow and his ribs, hooking his waist and drawing him into the kitchen immediately inside the apartment, balancing them both with one firm leg between his thighs, the other foot kicking out swiftly to slam the door shut behind them. He barely had time to close his mouth around the query before her lips were on his, her now free hand thrusting through the thick hair at the back of his head to pull his face down to hers, her arm around his waist pulling his hot, sweating, incredibly solid and sweet body against her own.

It took all of four seconds before Fraser's body got over the shock of suddenly finding his superior officer ravishing his mouth and he enthusiastically joined the kiss. His mind was still frozen in shock, but his arms, his mouth, his groin had been wanting this for much too long to let this opportunity pass untaken. His tongue slid over hers, then withdrew, and hers followed it eagerly into his mouth. He felt the blood rush from his head to his belly, making it even harder to think than it had been before. She felt the sudden stir of interest pushing insistently at her stomach and moaned. Yes. She had him. And he tasted even better than she remembered.

Neither was quite aware of how they got there, because there was no sensation of moving, but he found himself with the backs of his knees against the side of his bed, then the momentary dizziness of a short fall, the delicious weight of her body landing atop his, her hair falling softly around his face, He reached up to push it from where it had tangled, silky strands catching on his lips, and she suddenly froze. He groaned at the cessation of movement, and forced his head back far enough to see her face.

She looked horrified. She started to squirm down his body, exacerbating his arousal, and he gripped her upper arms firmly.

"Oh, dear," he barely breathed.

She started to pull back, but he was having none of that. Running his large, square hands over her hair, small soothing noises issuing from the back of his throat, he held her against his chest until she subsided.

"What is it, Meg?" His voice was very soft, inviting confidence, a dark undercurrent of passion lending a raspiness to it that sent a shiver cascading through her.

"I ... I don't want you to think you have to-" she couldn't quite finish the strangled explanation. He caught her meaning and a smile curved his lips, although his eyes remained serious.

"You're not sexually harrassing me, Margaret." He thrust up gently, but with enough force that she couldn't mistake his meaning. She whimpered in response. "I want this," he muttered hoarsely in her ear, reaching forward to nip lightly at the lobe. She whimpered again, more loudly, and thrust her pelvis into his. "I want **you**."

She finally relaxed back into his grip. Ottowa be damned. Rank be damned. It was just Benton Fraser and Meg Thatcher and the heat wave that melted Chicago. Wanting. Needing. Touching. Taking.

Who needed a runaway train. They could generate enough heat between the two of them to put any nuclear explosion to shame. And Mounties were much more fun when they were conscious.

Which they proceeded to prove until neither one could move, or think, or question.

Between them, the silence shimmered in the heat.

End

 


End file.
